


Band-Aids

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two stories, stuck together by means of a common theme:</p><p>1. "Not a Victory March" -- scenes from a safe house, after a mission that did not go so well.<br/>2. "Quincey, 1812" -- Fraction/Aja 'verse fluff/humour piece.  Clint listens to classical music; Natasha is ... spooked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not A Victory March

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts), [SugarFey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/gifts).



> **“Not A Victory March”**  
>  I had the title for this one (based on a line in Leonard Cohen's divine "Hallelujah") kicking around in my head for several months, but didn’t do anything with it until **Inkvoices** hit us with this prompt for the “All Things Friday” edition on **be_compromised** : “Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is this: downtime, featuring a plaster (or Band-Aid, or whatever they're called where you are).”
> 
> I own none of the characters herein, and while I do have some Band-Aids at home, I don’t own the trademark. (Sigh.)

 

She looks at him across the room where he sits on the bed, battered and bleeding, cursing softly as he tries to close up the gash in his forearm with a Band-Aid.  His face is pulled into a frown of concentration as he sticks one side down, pulling the wound together before tacking down the other end of the plaster to create a make-shift clamp. 

“Is that going to hold?” she asks, for the sake of saying something – anything – other than what she really wants to say. 

 _You could have died out there._  

“It’ll fucking have to,” he growls, still angry at himself for letting the bullet get that close to him, and to his shooting arm, yet.  He’s been cursing up a blue streak ever since it happened. 

 _I could have lost you._  

“There anything to drink in this dump?” 

S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses don’t come with minibars so chances are no, but the last agents to use this one were Evans and Miyazaki and that ups the probability of finding at least an empty bottle by about thirty percent. 

Natasha tears her eyes away from her partner’s hunched-over form.  Even covered in blood and grime, those arms never fail to get her in the gut – but right this moment he needs something other than watching her drool over his biceps. 

 _Shit._ _When did this happen?  When did my mouth start to go dry at the sight of Clint Barton’s skin?_  

She rummages through the formica-fronted cupboards in the kitchen.  Most of Tirana is a dump on a good day; inside a three-story walk-up that dates back to the days before Mother Teresa found God (or before Enver Hoxha tried to convince his people that God’s name was Mao) it’s positively screaming for a can of kerosene and a match. 

Evans and Miyazaki had been here to investigate the ring that brings Moldovan and Albanian women from their dreams of a secretarial job in Milan to the flesh markets of Amsterdam, St. Pauli and Soho but had been made and left in a hurry; Barton and Romanoff were detailed to finish the job and bat cleanup.  They did, and went on to Phase Two with extreme prejudice.  Of course, the trade will likely continue (it always does; crime does, in fact, pay nicely), although the need for new management should slow down things for a while. 

“Bingo,” she calls out.  “The finest local raki.  Time to live it up.” 

There’s a groan from the area where the bed is located, and she pokes her head around the corner to make sure it’s his response to the quality of the incoming beverage, rather than the discovery of another bullet wound. 

“It’s not like I’m not in enough pain already,” Clint complains, and if he weren’t one of the toughest guys on the planet, his tone might just be characterized as a whine of epic proportions. 

“Suck it up, you big baby.  It beats drinking what comes out of the taps in this place.”  (The previous tenants _did_ finish off the bottled water, the bastards, and no one has bothered to restock.) 

She takes a dishtowel of dubious pedigree off the rack and walks over to the bed where Clint has peeled off his tac vest and is now sitting cross-legged, dressed only in a black tank top and his cargo pants.  (At least he pulled off the combat boots.)  The side of the tank looks damp, but in the light of the single bulb it’s hard to tell whether it’s sweat or blood.  Probably both; they got him on his shooting side, and that wound is not exactly shallow. 

“Inside or out?” 

“There enough for both?” 

She nods, and starts pouring some of the clear liquid onto the towel. 

“Most of the bottle.  They must have left in a hurry.” 

“Or else that stuff is even worse than I fear.” 

Clint grimaces a little when she starts to clean the gash with the alcohol-soaked towel. 

“Should have waited before you put that Band-Aid on, I could have just poured some right over that hole,” she says matter-of-factly.  “Now, I have to make sure not to ruin your surgery skills.  That takes longer.” 

Natasha flings the red-stained towel behind her and picks the bottle back up from the nightstand. 

“Here,” she says, as she hands it to him.  Glasses, at this stage, would be an affectation; besides, they’re probably filthy.  “ _Shëndetësor_.” 

Clint takes a deep swig, and promptly pulls a face. 

“Fuck, that tastes like turpentine.” 

He shakes his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and knocks back another big swallow. 

“I guess the good news is, by the time my head’ll feel like splitting, we’ll be on the QuinJet and Coulson can dole out the good chems.” 

He gives her one of those sideways looks that he always uses to check whether she found one of his cracks amusing.  Their eyes lock, and suddenly it’s like all the oxygen got sucked out of the room and she can’t find her breath. 

She is not sure when it started, that burn, but she feels it clearly now.  What began as warmth in the pit of her stomach has turned into a sharp ache with the speed of kick to the gut.  It’s becoming a response she just can’t shake anymore, not when they’re like this, still pumped on adrenaline and needing -- not wanting -- to come down, and she knows he feels the same way.  She can see it in his eyes, now darkening with want, and hear it in the hiss of his breath. 

His hand on her hip sears like a bullet, as he pulls her down beside him on the bed.  Almost in defiance, she raises the bottle to her lips even as his mouth closes over one of her breasts; she can feel his teeth and tongue on her nipple through the rapidly dampening fabric of her t-shirt and bra.  That swallow turns into a ragged sob and the raki burns into the back of her nose, momentarily enveloping her with its fumes. 

She barely has time to set the bottle down when Clint pushes her down on the bed, lifts his leg over hers and straddles her, pinning her underneath his strong, solid body.  He pulls her arms over her head, holding her hands in one of his (the good arm, she notices dimly) and bends down for a searing, raki-infused kiss that is as much a claim as it is a declaration, and that leaves them both breathless. 

She could fight back, of course, but she won’t, not this time.  He’s the one who gave of himself today -- his blood for hers, he won’t be able to pull his bow for weeks -- and it is only right that he take something back.  She does, however, bring up her knees behind him and shoves him down on top of her, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she is far from being helpless, or passive. 

His tongue has left her mouth and is now trailing a path down her neck, his hand still clamping down on hers as they grind together.  It doesn’t last long in that position though, as he seems driven by a need to get closer to her skin, and for that he needs both hands.  He succeeds in ripping off her shirt and flings it across the room; his own follows in rapid succession and he laughs, darkly, in triumph. 

It’s always like this now, it seems, and it’s never less than spectacular -- this coming down from the high of battle, this falling into each other (whether in celebration or mourning, its all the same).  She thinks that at some point they should really give it a name.  Some time when they don’t still hear the crack of guns echoing in their heads. 

 _But not now._  

“Careful with that Band-Aid,” is all she can say before words fail.

 


	2. Quincey, 1812

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **“Quincey, 1812”**  
>  This one was born out of the 2013 **be_compromised** Promptathon, where **SugarFey** said, “Clint is secretly a classical music fan.” Well, **Frea_O** had just filled a comic-based prompt of mine with "Domestic Bliss", and so I was moved to set this in the Fraction-Aja comics verse. (Bonus points if you spot the line from _The Unusuals_.) Appropriately enough, the title has undergone two rounds of repairs since I first posted the piece on LJ.

 

The sounds coming out of Clint’s apartment on Quincey Street are unlike anything she has ever heard in or around his building.  And that takes into account the paper thin walls separating his digs from those of the eclectic gang of misfits who he claims are -- but she suspects in some cases are actually _not_ \-- paying him rent.  

Bed-Stuy is a neighborhood that celebrates rappers like Li’l Kim, Notorious B.I.G. and Mos Def _, not_ the New York Philharmonic.  And Clint Barton?  Strictly New Jersey.  (E-Street, to be precise.) 

Natasha reaches for her Glock. 

Stark turns to her; with his visor up, she has a good view of the raised eyebrow and the smirk on his lips. 

“ _Spidey senses_ tingling, Black Widow?” 

“Please, Tony, not now.”  

Trust Stark to have noticed how that spotty teenager kept making cows eyes at her throughout the mission earlier.  Peter Parker may have his uses, but as far as Natasha is concerned, he needs to find a way to control his pheromone emissions or his experience with arachnid mating habits will be over before it can ever begin. 

“Seriously.  What’s the issue here?  Little loud music got you on edge?  You disappoint me, Romanoff.” 

“Shh,” she hisses.  Words with Stark beget only more words, but maybe he’ll respond to the basics.  

“What?”  

At least he is keeping his voice down now (not that it’s necessary in that racket, all things considered).  But maybe she should explain. 

“You see, Clint’s been having trouble with these goons.  He calls them ‘the tracksuit mafia’.  Haven’t you noticed the number of Band-Aids he’s been wearing lately?” 

Stark frowns. 

“As a matter of fact, I have.  Considered buying stock in Johnson & Johnson, but then Pepper reminded me we already owned most of the company.  But is that why you asked me to come with you?  To protect your boyfriend from evil hoodlums?” 

It wasn’t.  Seriously – why would Black Widow need a guy in a tin can to help out (unless it was against a flock of aliens, or an inconvenient nuclear missile – the guy does have his uses, even if she hates to have to admit it at times). 

No, Ironman had just been a more convenient form of transport to Brooklyn than having to hail a cab and getting stuck in rush hour traffic across the bridge, when the sudden desire to see how Clint was doing had struck her -- but Natasha isn’t going to tell him that, lest he refuse the next time she needs a ride.  

So, by way of compromise, she rolls her eyes at him: _As if_. 

“No, and he’s not my boyfriend.  But now that you’re here, Stark, you might as well make yourself useful.  Someone’s obviously taken over Clint’s apartment, and …” 

“Aren’t you overreacting just a little?  Maybe Barton just likes listening to loud classical music?  Besides, aren’t burglars supposed to be … inconspicuous?” 

Stark can be _so_ naïve sometime, living in that JARVIS-enabled Manhattan cocoon of his. 

“You don’t know these guys, Tony.  They own this neighborhood, and think nothing about attacking people in broad daylight.  They may be using the music to cover up what they’re doing to him …” 

She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to either, for this is the moment when an earth-shattering boom emanates from Clint’s apartment on the third floor, so loud that the windows rattle. 

“Moving in,” Stark presses out of suddenly clenched lips, flips his visor down and engages his thrusters.  Natasha doesn’t hear or see any of this; she is already flying up the stairs. 

It’s a testament to the Black Widow’s speed that she busts through the door of Clint’s apartment at the same time as Ironman enters through the window in a hail of glass, widening it considerably in the process. 

The scene that meets their eyes is one of domestic bliss, disrupted:  The coffee table is littered with Chinese food containers and archery equipment; Hawkeye himself, in sweats and a white t-shirt, had obviously been lying with his feet pulled up on an oversized, slightly shabby couch, his equally shabby dog’s head resting on his chest.  The dog yelps in protest, as his master flings himself off his back and into a fighting stance with the speed of a snapping turtle. 

A nicely put together young woman, whom Natasha immediately recognizes as Clint’s precocious protégée, had obviously been curled up on the other end of the couch cradling a cup of tea; said cup is currently flying across the room in an arc of amber liquid.  

Both occupants of the apartment voice a strikingly similar sentiment (“What the fuck???”) as they dive for their respective bows, just as a pair of expensive-looking speakers emits another boom that makes the walls shake and causes the glass shards on the bare floor to tinkle.  

The dog’s bark provides a nice, organic counterpoint. 

Fortunately, all four of the rather lethal individuals now contained in the suddenly cramped apartment are as quick to stand down from battle as they are at gearing up for it, and the last bars of the _1812 Overture_ are allowed to end … well, not exactly in silence, since no one has turned down the volume, but at least without any additional special effects.  

“Well,” Stark says, his metal boots crunching the glass as he shifts from one foot to the other.  “That was … exhilarating.” 

Natasha ignores him. 

“Since when do you listen to classical music, Barton?”  

Having holstered her Glock, and despite her diminutive size, she manages to tower over Clint, who has flopped back on his couch, trying to calm his hyperventilating dog.  

The object of her ire sighs, obviously reluctant to admit something that could be construed as a weakness. 

“Since … emm …” 

“Since I decided to refine his musical tastes,” Kate Bishop declares.  “I got _tired_ of Springsteen.  You guys made a mess.  It’s even worse in here than before.” 

Over by the couch, Natasha is trying to keep a strand of hair off her forehead that dislodged in her race up the stairs, even as she runs her eyes over her wayward partner to make sure the number of Band-Aids on his face and arms hasn’t gone up since Thursday.  He finally meets her eyes with his own. 

“You…” he falters a little.  “You came … to rescue me?”  

There is another crunching noise from near the window.  He frowns. 

“And brought _Stark_?” 

“He was just my transport.” 

“Hey.  I heard that!”  Tony is not used to being ignored, let alone dismissed, but as far as Natasha is concerned, it’s never too late to learn.  She glares at Clint, hands on her hips now. 

“So you listen to classical music now.  And you didn’t think to tell me?” 

Clint has the decency to look sheepish.  It’s not hard, actually, with that band aid on his nose. 

“Image, you know.  That whole working class thing?  Plus I didn’t think that was required intel.  Until now.”  He gestures vaguely around his trashed living room.  “Obviously a major miscalculation.” 

“Not her boyfriend, my ass,” Tony mutters in Kate's direction, since she is the only one not entirely oblivious to his presence.  “Pepper looks at me like that all the time.” 

"I'm not her boyfriend, Stark," Clint corrects him, proudly.  "I'm her _man_.” 

His face lights up in an odd smile, and he pats the seat beside him – cursing slightly when he cuts his hand on a stray piece of glass.  

“ _You thought I was in trouble, Tasha_.  And you came to rescue me.  Come sit.” 

Natasha scowls but sits down --  after Clint has swept the offending glass off the couch, leaving a smear of blood.  She takes his hand and inspects the cut, and doesn't let it go.  Her voice softens, just for him. 

“You’ll need a Band-Aid for that.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, just stares at her as if she were something precious, her lips quirk up in a smile. 

“ _Tchaikovsky_?” she purrs. 

“Always liked the Russians.  Plus, those guns?  They remind me of you.” 

The equally forgotten fourth person in the room, wise beyond her years, turns to Ironman, who is raising his metallic hand as if he were about to make an important point, or maybe an announcement. 

“Hi.  I’m Kate.  Kate Bishop?  You must be Tony Stark.  I’ve heard so much about you, from Clint _and_ my Dad.  Think you could give me a lift over to Park?”


End file.
